


Beyond the Bridge

by hedera_helix



Series: Dresden [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5544647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedera_helix/pseuds/hedera_helix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to Dresden with a scene per chapter from Erwin's point of view. </p>
<p>Also check out the re-written first chapter! Because I rewrote it because it wasn't good enough!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There it is again – that hollow feeling which follows a night shared, multiplied when her scent wafts up from the sheets. Erwin fights to ignore it as he makes the bed, makes it out to mean he feels nothing, as he should. A thing of convenience – for both of them, no doubt – just a thing to distract himself with and to keep rumours at bay. No need for feelings, of any sort; hence the appropriateness of that hollowness, which he still wishes will disappear once he finishes making the bed. He opens the window – she wanted it closed and he obliged despite the discomfort – to clear out the stuffiness of the room and to bring the temperature down to something he’ll better tolerate; it feels even cooler on his wet skin once he finishes washing off the sweat from the night before.

Erwin makes a plan for the day as he dresses; a cup of coffee and some breakfast, he’ll glance through the paper just to see what they’re lying about now if for no other reason. Work after that, a few letters and the files from the week that always pile up to be sorted through on the weekend. He thinks of having dinner in a restaurant somewhere and then remembers the leg of lamb he got from Frau Hirsch. What a bother women can be to an unmarried man, and in how many ways, though, Erwin thinks as he buttons up his slacks, they do have their uses on occasion.

He sets up the washstand and starts shaving his face. Lilian complained about his stubble, said it left her skin red. Always afraid the help will gossip, and Erwin supposes it’s good she is – Lord knows he’s in no need for more trouble on account of _her_ of all people. Erwin knows well enough he’ll only make use of her for as long as it remains convenient – though breaking off the thing would no doubt take some manoeuvring, should it ever come to that. Someone like her would be likely to get her feelings–

A sudden flash of movement in the mirror, and the thought disappears from Erwin’s mind as fast as the gun appears in his hand. It’s a moment of pure reflex when he turns around, aim steady, expecting an assassin but seeing instead…

A man.

A boy? Unarmed. Out of breath. Sickly. Small. Young. The observations pour into Erwin’s mind as he keeps his aim, hearing the intruder hissing a swear before his eyes meet the barrel of his gun and he freezes, eyes wide, his body like a statue under his window. He came through it. How? Erwin casts the question aside. Not essential. His mind is already formulating outcomes. Dead or alive? He hears soldiers out on the street beyond the garden wall: looking for a Jew, this young man who sits underneath his bedroom window, nearly breathless from the escape.

His mind needs more time. The situation is too unexpected.

“I see they’re talking about you,” Erwin says quietly to buy himself time and the man’s expression changes, confirming the speculation.

The man doesn’t speak but his gaze begins to travel the room, to examine it and somehow Erwin knows he’s looking for a weapon. Someone who wants to live. And that brings back those outcomes: dead or alive? If dead, how? If alive, through what means? Was he seen climbing the wall – for he must’ve climbed it, as absurd as it sounds – and if yes, would that be a better way to dispose of him? It seems the more pleasant scenario. Erwin’s never done this, looked into the eyes of a civilian and pulled the trigger. That thing with Marie comes to his mind but he dismisses it angrily. Not the time nor the place – and furthermore, there’s nothing to re-examine or reconsider there. In any case, it would be better to let the men outside take care of it, if only to save himself further… what? Regret? He wonders if that’s really the word for it.

Then there’s the other option: alive.

No civilian rescue, and that’s what guided his decision before. Erwin knows this, knows the protocol – and knows just as well he’s taken liberties with it in the past. He knows the alternatives, sees the insides of the man’s head splattered across his wall, hears the shouting from men in uniforms as they guide people out of the trains – a vision more abhorrent than the first, though he knows he shouldn’t feel that way, knows that Holtz wouldn’t. The soldiers outside beat Erwin by mere seconds in reaching their decision.

“Don’t do anything stupid, now,” Erwin tells the man after lowering his gun. Unnecessary risk but then, he does need his sleep at the end of the day.

Erwin turns back to the washstand and dries his face and hands before walking swiftly to the door and opening it; five soldiers in the hallway with a dog, still young and overly excited about having been included and barking madly for it.

“We’re sorry to disturb you, sir,” one of the men speaks up while another is trying to silence the dog. “We’re looking for a person of interest in this neighbourhood and we’re wondering whether you’ve seen anything.”

“I was wondering about that racket,” Erwin tells him sullenly. “You’d catch a lot more of these people if you learned to be quiet when you chase them.”

“Sorry, sir,” the man says. “It’s the dog, it’s not used to this kind of thing yet.”

The puppy barks into the hallway loudly even with one of the soldiers trying to keep it quiet, pulling on the leash harshly enough to make the animal whine. There’s something about the mistreatment that bothers Erwin, and somehow he knows it has nothing to do with the Führer’s fondness for dogs.

“Well, anyway, I can’t say I’ve seen anything out of the ordinary,” he states shortly, hoping the curt tone of his voice will be enough to send the soldiers on their way. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Would you mind us taking a closer look? The assailant is small, and you know how these Jew rats can hide,” a Lance Corp– _Rottenführer_ asks him now, uttering a laugh that sounds much too familiar for someone of the man’s rank.

Erwin deepens his frown and stares at the soldier, his thoughts already back on the young man in his bedroom; a Jew then, or they at least think so. False papers or married to someone German to still be living in Dresden. Not too many young men walking around town without a uniform; he must have stuck out like a sore thumb. One of those random checks then, perhaps. The silence drags on, growing less comfortable by the second, and Erwin hopes it’s enough.

“Clearly that won’t be necessary,” one of the other soldiers says, sounding nervous under Erwin’s severe expression.

“It seems _Rottenführer_ is forgetting his rank and mine,” Erwin replies sternly as the dog begins to bark into the hallway again. “I expect you to manage the noise from now on.”

“Yes, sir. Excuse us, sir,” the man from before says as Erwin grabs the edge of the door and closes it resolutely to put an end to the conversation.

Back to the more important question: the intruder. He won’t trust a man in uniform and he’ll have found the razor by now, if Erwin can guess anything. No reason to assume he should possess any skill with it, but Erwin still enters the room carefully to avoid a nasty surprise. The attack is swift and not entirely artless; the man’s movements are fast and there is a kind of agility Erwin could never match, the build of his body being what it is. It’s clear what the man lacks: training, knowledge and strategy, the consideration of best tactics to use in each situation. Erwin sidesteps the blows with some effort – that speed is difficult to match – before getting a hold of the man. This is where he has the advantage and he seizes it without delay, forcing the man’s arm behind his back and securing the razor in his hand, placing it swiftly into his pocket.

“This is precisely what I meant,” Erwin mutters before easing his hold not to cause the man unnecessary discomfort, and it clearly comes as a surprise. He walks swiftly to the window to close it and draw the curtain over it; having something to do keeps his mind from sprouting regrets. “They’ll stay in the area for a while. Ideally you should wait until it gets dark.”

He looks back at the man whose expression is full of a sort of disgruntled surprise and he notes again the slightly sunken eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. No permanent employment, Erwin guesses, and food must be scarce without it. The poor wretch looks about ready to keel over, which makes his presence in the apartment ever more impressive. Something about that gaunt appearance stirs Erwin’s sympathies.

“Perhaps you’d like to sit down while you wait,” he suggests and suddenly the man’s legs seem to give out and he sits down on the floor again, looking up at Erwin with resentment and thinly veiled anger; Erwin can’t blame him for either, though he also doesn’t welcome them. He wonders if he should wait for the man to speak, but he seems unwilling to.

“Perhaps we ought to have a cup of coffee,” Erwin says, guessing it’s been a long time since the man has had anything labelled coffee with even a hint of the real thing in it; a generous peace offering that goes unappreciated. “Or perhaps you’d like something to eat? How long has it been since you’ve had a proper meal?”

Still no answer. It’s getting quite ridiculous and irritating. Petulant even but then the man does seem to be quite young. Perhaps it could serve as an explanation – though still wholly unsatisfactory.

“Surely there’s no reason why we can’t act like civilised people,” Erwin reminds the man, who looks up in disbelief again. “Even in these circumstances.”

“Civilised?” he makes his first reply. His voice is much lower than Erwin anticipated, revealing his estimation for the man’s age to have been incorrect. “I don’t think someone like you should be using a word like that.”

An honest opinion based on the available evidence, and one Erwin can hardly disagree with, all things considered.

“Says the man who tried to kill me not five minutes ago,” Erwin replies, taking note of the man’s accent; distinctly Berlin.

“You tried to kill me first.”

Erwin can’t help smiling; such a childish statement, almost comical given the situation. “I threatened your life, yes,” he admits willingly, “but only I know whether my intention was indeed to end it. If you think about it logically, it would have been much easier for me to hand you over to our esteemed friends over there.”

The man seems to consider this, like the thought is only occurring to him now. Erwin watches him, enjoys catching that moment of surrender when the man relaxes – though clearly still grudgingly – and he gets back onto his feet, walking past Erwin as if unwilling to give him more of his attention.

“I don’t like coffee,” he states in that low voice; it holds something that makes Erwin’s skin prickle.

“Perhaps tea then,” he suggests, passing the man again on his way to the kitchen.

The most unusual interruption; his thoughts are still trying to catch up with it as he makes the tea. A Jew on the run from the Gestapo. A Jew who appears to be in the possession of a set of marvellous skills as regards climbing if not wielding a knife. A fighting Jew, a young man still, living in Dresden in 1944. Until today Erwin would’ve assumed such a thing to be impossible.

He returns to the sitting room as fast as he can, if for no other reason then for the fear the man has found something else to swing around or throw at him. Erwin finds him sitting calmly on the sofa; he doesn’t move when Erwin walks over to place the tea tray onto the coffee table.

“I did try to kill you, you know,” the Jew tells Erwin after he’s poured the tea and sat down on one of the armchairs with his cup and saucer.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Erwin replies truthfully and, encouraged by his earlier musings, adds, “That survival instinct of yours is quite remarkable. I’ve not encountered one as strong as yours in someone like you before.”

Erwin isn’t sure whether he’s meant it as a compliment or whether he said it simply to put that thought of his from before into words, but the man doesn’t seem to find any flattery in it, judging by his expression.

“How did you manage the wall?” Erwin asks next, wondering himself if he did it to change the subject. “I’d imagine it would be impossible to climb for someone your size.”

“There was an old cart by it. I jumped from there,” the man explains briefly; hearing the feat thus explained doesn’t make Erwin feel any less impressed.

“Quite a jump,” Erwin says; another compliment he didn’t plan on giving, and he changes the subject again. “So how long has it been? Since your last proper meal, that is.”

There’s a moment when the man looks sourer than before until something within him gives up again.

“What are you having?”

Ah, yes. They have restrictions regarding food. Pork, at the very least. Erwin’s heard too many stories and rumours over the years to be sure of the rest.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to respond to dietary restriction on such short notice,” he replies, thinking of the leg of lamb, “but I’m fortunate in having enough to share, even if the food itself is nothing special.”

“I guess beggars can’t be choosers,” the man says, drinking his tea and smiling; he likes the taste.

“Yes,” Erwin says. “These are trying times. We all must make sacrifices in times of war.”

“Some more than others.”

Erwin can’t help laughing a little. A statement Holtz would appreciate, and there’s something disturbing about that thought. It’s distant. Uncomfortably so.

“Such is the nature of this world, and the nature of us who inhabit it,” Erwin states quickly, trying to put the thought out of his mind as he empties his cup and stands up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to attend to. Please feel free to make yourself at home, as far as you’re able.”

He retreats to his secretaire, hoping having the man out of his sight will allow him to get back to the plan he had for the day. He keeps an ear out for movement, looking back when the silence drags on and finding the intruder has fallen asleep on his sofa. Erwin leaves him to it, suddenly remembering the breakfast he never had and preparing some; he eats it at his desk, typing all the while, glancing back every once in a while to make sure the man hasn’t woken. He sleeps until the afternoon, most likely worn out by the chase. When Erwin finally wakes him, he grows alert with a swiftness that reveals the years he’s lived in fear.

“I’ve prepared some dinner,” Erwin tells him, keeping his tone free from any of the emotions that threatens to pierce through, of the sympathy he knows will only complicate things.

“What time is it?” the man asks him sleepily, his voice even lower than before.

“Just past five,” Erwin says, moving out of the way as the man stands up and stretches his back. “The bathroom is through there if you’d like to wash up.”

Their shared dinner is a strange affair, an uncomfortable tug of war where the Jew seems set on provoking something in Erwin, and where he resists being provoked. The whole thing makes something unpleasant nestle in the pit of Erwin’s stomach, brings something out to haunt the corners of his mind he’s long left unexplored for reasons of convenience, to better his own chances of survival. It’s inconvenient, to have something remind him of things he’d rather leave where they are – belonging to a different life. To someone else.

And yet, Erwin finds himself giving advice to the Jew, some tips from his days of training – they seem safe enough, being a shared experience of both the Erwins. The man seems eager enough to accept them, though he doesn’t thank Erwin – not for the advice nor for the leg of lamb. Being the cheapskate he is, Erwin has a mind to make a mention of it, but those sympathies make him hold his tongue instead.

“I’d imagine it’s safe for you to make your way back now,” he says instead, anxious to get the Jew out of his apartment, still giving another piece of advice and adding, “Keep to the busier streets. Avoid drawing attention to yourself.”

“I know what I’m doing,” the man tells him, sounding annoyed; a proud sort of person – another surprise.

“Of course you do,” Erwin says with a quick smile, extending his hand. “All the best.”

The man looks at the gesture with the same suspicion before taking Erwin’s hand in his; it feels small and cool and foreign, like the touch doesn’t belong here.

“Sure,” he mutters before leaving the apartment.

Erwin expected to feel instantly relieved to see the back of the Jew, to go back to his work and leave all thought of the man behind since it has ceased to concern his present. He expected to be able to go back to that numb hollowness, didn’t think anything about the intrusion would throw his thoughts into a lingering disarray. A momentary loss of control, alarming and unpleasant, to disturb the balance – to make him wonder how long it has been since he really had a balance to begin with.


	2. Chapter 2

From the beginning it has fascinated Erwin how stark the contrast between Lilian’s parties is, how the appearance of her husband changes everything from the music being played to the food being served, and though he can’t claim to have ever truly enjoyed himself at any of the woman’s soirees, it’s nevertheless easy for him to pick his favourites. He yawns discreetly into his glass of brandy as he watches her flitting across the room to her husband; she is wearing the black gown she wore the night they first met – Erwin can still remember where the zipper is hidden. Standing next to her husband she looks suddenly older than she really is, and much older than she likes to pretend to be. Judging by her matronly conduct toward everyone that night, she could easily have been in her sixties. It’s what Wolfgang does to her, makes her suddenly into a wife and mother. Had Erwin met Lilian for the first time with her husband present, he doubts things would’ve ended up where they eventually did. Erwin’s eyes move on to Wolfgang and he measures the man for a few seconds before turning away; should he still feel guilt for the things he’s done, there are much worthier candidates in his past than this.

Erwin lets his focus shift from one face to another as his gaze sweeps the room. For him the party is in a lull; he’s made all the small talk expected of him, he’s praised the Führer and his non-existent secret weapon that will win the war for the German people – he’s even made a quick bet with Pechman over who’ll get his promotion first, Fischer or Ribbeck, for a measly sum of money he’ll hardly miss if he loses. The guest list has yielded next to no surprises; the same faces, night after night, the same works of Wagner playing in the background, the same inane conversation. Nothing has so much as brushed against Erwin’s curiosity for hours, save for one unexpected addition to the guest list.

Erwin doesn’t know how Mandl managed to weasel his way into the party – he would’ve thought it nearly impossible after the scandal of a trial he went through. His best guess is the man knows something about Wolfgang that has convinced the latter to elevate him from his status of pariah for the evening – most likely it’s something Lilian ought not to find out rather than anything of real importance. Most likely Mandl has seen Wolfgang in a brothel somewhere back east; Erwin doesn’t waste his time by thinking either one of them is above that. His eyes meet Mandl’s and they share an acknowledging nod. A handsome chap – but then, many of them are. Others seem less impressed with him, casting glares in his direction and shaking their heads slightly. It hasn’t occurred to Erwin in years how strange the divide is between what these people approve and disapprove of.

He turns back to his drink, sighing audibly out of little else than sheer boredom. He even wonders if it’s too early to leave already, but the thought of another night alone in the apartment doesn’t tempt him either. Of course, now that Erwin considers it, there exists the impossibly slight chance that he would be going home to another bizarre visit from the Jew. Why anyone would go through the trouble of scaling a wall just to invade someone’s home to scrub the floors is beyond him – and quite probably beyond any other sane person. The event has left Erwin mystified. People’s motivations are rarely something he needs to struggle to understand, he takes pride in his ability to read those he comes into contact with, but this… This he can’t make sense of, though he’s spent a good deal of time trying to come up with an explanation. It is quite possible that the poor fellow is a little unhinged, which would explain why his actions defy the course of reason.

The party drags on and pulls Erwin with it. He has to keep reminding himself not to drink as much as he usually does at Lilian’s get-togethers; his usual routine of falling into her bed at the end of the night is off the table anyway. He feels a sting of disappointment for it; he wouldn’t mind the distraction that sex offers, the rush of it, even if lately his thoughts have been on something different, something that is not Lilian, and not anyone like her either. He dances a little with the other women present. They’re mostly wives of officers, and Erwin can see how their husbands hesitate to surrender them into his arms. They needn’t worry; one illicit affair is more than enough for Erwin. At the end of it all he finds he’s barely looked at Lilian all evening, and though he has no interest in examining the whys and wherefores any further, he doubts he has done it out of any respect for her marriage. Leaving the house is a relief that seems to manifest itself in that first breath of spring air Erwin draws once he’s stepped outside. He enjoys it only for a moment before lighting a cigarette.

“Haven’t got enough to share, have you?”

Erwin turns around, recognising Mandl’s face from beyond the cloud of smoke he’s just breathed out. He hesitates for a moment of pure Holtz when he thinks of the price he paid for the cigarettes; real American stuff, none of that shit they issue out to soldiers – and not laced with anything either. In the end he reaches into his pocket for the case and offers the man one, scratching fire onto a match to light it. They smoke standing side by side, staying quiet until Mandl speaks out.

“Don’t know why I bother with this shit,” he mutters and spits onto the pavement. “Thank God they’re sending me back east soon. A couple weeks in this place always makes me want to blow someone’s head off.”

Erwin grunts. “Poland again?” he asks without thinking about it further, and the man nods.

“Can’t find enough people who can keep it together out there,” he says, drawing a deep drag and setting the tip of his cigarette aglow. “Weak sons of bitches. They should give us permission to shoot anyone who can’t keep their breakfast down when they see it.”

“You’d have to drag the honourable Obergruppenführer from his castle first,” Erwin reminds the man, grinning when he lets out a bark of laughter.

“Fucking swine king,” Mandl curses, smoking jerkily. “Sitting in his fucking palace while the rest of us do his dirty work for him.”

“Workers work and the rich get richer for it,” Erwin mutters, exhaling another cloud of smoke when Mandl scoffs.

“You’re not some fucking Bolshevik are you?” he asks, laughing when Erwin does.

“Hadn’t you heard?” Erwin asks him back. “NSDAP stands for the National Socialist German Worker’s Party.”

“No shit,” Mandl hums, smoking. “I never got past the N.”

Erwin scoffs at the comment; he’s yet to meet a more devout Nazi – and Lord knows by now he’s met the worst of them – though there are some glaring omissions, some key pieces of doctrine the man has clearly elected to ignore. But then, he can’t help what he is any more than Erwin can. He can imagine the man has tried at some point in his life to win that losing battle which Erwin never bothered with himself. Well, the trial is testimony enough of his failure. No doubt all it has taught the man is how to be more careful about it, to control those urges since denying them altogether is a waste of time. Having lived here his whole life, Mandl ought to have learned that by now.

“You did a round a few years back, didn’t you?” the man returns to their earlier subject and Erwin grunts a reply.

“In ’42,” he confirms, shifting his focus back onto his cigarette; he doesn’t want to remember.

“Did you get to have any fun?”

Erwin shakes his head sharply. “Pencil pusher,” he reminds the man. “All I had fun with were filing cabinets.”

Mandl laughs; it’s strange that a man like him can laugh. “That’s a shame,” he says. “Though I’ve heard you like it – what you do.”

Erwin shrugs. “It’s work,” he states dully. “Don’t know how many thoughts I’m supposed to have on the subject.”

“I couldn’t do it,” Mandl tells him, pausing to smoke. “Stuck behind a desk all day? No thank you. I need to be out there, see? I need to be in the thick of it.”

Erwin grunts another acknowledgement of the man’s words. He’d like to point out that where he’s been posted, Mandl has never so much as been within earshot of “the thick of it”, but he keeps his mouth shut. He glances at the man, taking in his features, the size of his hands, the short, well-combed hair. Strange how handsome evil can look.

“Guess I should get going,” the man notes, taking one last drag off his cigarette and tossing it on the ground. “Should’ve probably done that a couple hours ago.”

“You want a proper drink?” Erwin asks on impulse, putting out his own smoke as well. “Got some gin earlier this week. Not half bad.”

Mandl doesn’t reply at once. Erwin can sense him as he calculates, tries to decipher the invitation, to determine what exactly he’s being offered. Erwin stays still, not a single muscle flinching on his face. Let Mandl come to his own conclusions; he’d make his own ends clear soon enough should the man accept.

“Why not?” he finally says, flashing Erwin a quick half smile that’s closer to a sneer. “You know a party’s no good when it doesn’t even get you drunk, right?”

Erwin grunts in agreement and starts marching toward the direction of his apartment. It doesn’t occur to him that Mandl is having trouble keeping up with his pace until he hears the man’s panting breathing; it’s a funny thought, that despite his desk job Erwin still gets more exercise than he does. He slows down, if only a little, to allow Mandl to catch up to his speed. Slowing down opens his mind to questions about how prudent his actions are. It’s a short conversation. Mandl won’t breathe a word to anyone – not unless he wants a one-way ticket to Dachau. He certainly doesn’t seem to be at the brink of self-destruction.

They cross the short distance in a lingering silence, both perhaps too fed up with the pretence to bother with it any longer. They’ve barely reached the first floor landing when Erwin feels the man’s hands on his waist, pushing him towards and through the door, which opens under the key and allows them to stumble into the hallway, already tearing at clothes, feet already kicking off shoes. Erwin pulls the man into a kiss, gasping at the feel of the stubble on his face. Mandl’s touches on his body are moving toward his groin much faster than Lilian has ever managed the distance; indelicate, desperate, simple and unembellished. It’s the honesty that Erwin has always enjoyed – no time for games when your life is on the line. He grabs the front of the man’s shirt and urges him further into the apartment, nearly falling over his own feet. They make it through the sitting room, laughing here and there into each other’s mouths as their intoxication mixes with the sudden arousal. Erwin’s fingers fight with the buttons of Mandl’s shirt, his eyes catching glimpses of the bed behind them – and catching something else as well.

The Jew.

Erwin lets go of the other man at once, taking an instant step back – a reflex born from years of being on guard during moments like this. As soon as he sees that strange, small figure by the window, Erwin’s mind jumps to the inevitable conclusion: Mandl can’t leave the apartment alive. It takes him a few seconds to retrace the steps that led him there, to catch his thoughts before they race out of his control. Couldn’t trust the Jew to know the right things to say in this situation – the poor fellow looks too stunned to be trusted to say anything. Should the truth come out of who he is, there is no way to explain it to Mandl in any reasonable way; the man has too much hatred for that. Erwin has no explanation, nor can he think of one on the spot, not fast or safely enough.

Without saying a word, Erwin crosses the room to his washstand. The razor is his best bet on a quiet night like this. He closes his eyes for a few seconds when he grabs it and a small towel, reeling just a tad from how quickly his plans for the night have changed, and how bothersome the whole situation has suddenly become. Even so, being placed in a circumstance where he needs to choose between the life of the Jew and the life of Mandl, Erwin chooses the Jew – again. Not because he knows him or likes him very much for all his strange habits, but because he knows Mandl.

“Who the fuck is this?” the man snaps at Erwin; as good for last words as any other, as far as Erwin can evaluate it.

He never sees it coming. It’s obvious from the shocked stare, the way he looks Erwin in the eye, terrified and confused, in a way that says he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Erwin keeps him quiet, shutting his mouth with the palm of his hand as he waits for the life to drain from him. He eases Mandl onto the floor with the towel placed underneath him to catch the wealth of blood pouring out of the cut across his throat. He doesn’t stop to look at the body, to reflect on how something once living is now no more than a useless mass of flesh and bones. Instead he walks back to the washstand to drop the razor in the bowl of water and to rinse the worst of the blood off his hands. When he turns around, his focus comes back to the Jew, still standing by the window wide-eyed, grasping the ledge as if he’s considering making a hasty escape.

“What are you doing here?” Erwin goes straight for the question that bothers him the most. The plans that need to be put into place are already forming in his mind.

“I…” the Jew starts, staring at Erwin like he’s barely seeing him. “I thought… You killed him.”

Clearly he needs a moment.

“Calm down and stay here,” Erwin tells the man gently. “I’ll be right back.”

He leaves the room, glancing back at the door and finding the Jew staring at Mandl’s body. He walks out quickly, straightening the cuffs of his shirt before stepping out, marching down to the ground floor and picking up the receiver of the communal telephone. Darlett answers on the fifth ring after the centre has put Erwin through.

“Hello, Müller,” Erwin says as soon as he hears the man’s voice. “Fancy a drink?”

He can hear Darlett sighing over at his end. “What’re you having?”

“Got some ice cold vodka with your name on it,” Erwin tells him, thinking he should laugh; he’s sounding too serious. “Bring your friends. We’ll make a party out of it.”

Darlett seems near groaning but in the end he merely states, “Sure. Sounds pleasant enough. I ought to be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t wake the neighbours,” Erwin reminds him and puts down the receiver without saying goodbye. As soon as he does, his thoughts go back to the Jew – what makes this whole affair even more unfortunate.

He hops back up the stairs, expecting to find his apartment empty, the figure of the Jew walking away from the building along the empty street outside. The man’s continuing presence is a surprise – as is the blood he’s somehow gotten onto his hands and wrists.

“What–?” Erwin begins, but a thought suddenly occurs to him. He looks down at the body. The towel under Mandl’s head has been changed into a clean one. The water in the washbowl has turned a deep red. “You cleaned?” he asks the Jew, who nods.

“I’m filthy,” the man says, staring at his hands. Perhaps he’s never seen a dead body before.

“Yes, you are,” Erwin says calmly. No purpose in upsetting him even further. Best to give him something to do, focus his mind on something else, something more pleasant. Erwin nods toward the bathroom. “Come on. We need to draw some water for the chaps.”

“The chaps?” the Jew repeats in confusion, following Erwin out of the bedroom.

He starts drawing the water into buckets while the man washes his hands. There’s a brush and a bar of soap by the tub; he’s been cleaning again. Even beyond everything, Erwin feels a sting of frustration at how utterly perplexing it is. He tells himself again there is no shame in not fathoming the actions of a madman, but glancing back at the Jew, the argument grows unconvincing. The way he cleans his hands is meticulous, controlled. When he’s done he dries his hands and leaves Erwin behind in the bathroom; when he walks out with the buckets, he finds the Jew sitting on the sofa, staring at Mandl’s body with a frown lining his face.

“Who was he?” the Jew asks once Erwin has kneeled down by the corpse and started cleaning up the mess of blood again.

“No one really,” Erwin tells him; the man seems harmless enough, but it’s best to keep his statements non-specific. “He’d seen you, so I had to kill him. That’s all.”

“Oh?” the Jew voices dryly. “I didn’t realise I was someone important.”

Erwin chuckles; there’s that sense of humour. Quite attractive and unexpected.

“You’re not,” he tells the Jew, who doesn’t seem happy to be hearing it.

“And you are?” he demands at once in a voice that signals he is thoroughly unimpressed.

Erwin takes a moment to think and nods with some hesitation. “Yes. I am,” he lets the other know, believing it but adding, “In a way at least.” After all, his input isn’t infinite, nor is his contribution irreplaceable.

“What way is that?”

Curious fellow – perhaps overly so. Rinsing and drying his hands, Erwin decides he’s answered enough questions for one night. He crosses the sitting room and places himself in the armchair, fixing his stare on the Jew. His face would reveal something of his intentions, Erwin is sure of it.

“What were you doing in my apartment?” he asks, voice more stern than he intended. He waits to see a hint of something akin to panic on the other man’s face, or perhaps an indication of his confused state. Instead the man sneers dismissively.

“I don’t know,” he states, shrugging. “What were you doing with that man when you came in?”

The answer leaves Erwin ever more perplexed. “Is that what you came here for?” he asks. He can’t pretend to be flattered by the thought.

“Not in a million fucking years,” the Jew tells him in no uncertain terms, making Erwin’s frown pull further toward his eyes. Another eliminated possibility, another half-way reasonable explanation demolished.

“You cleaned my floors again,” he starts over, following the only lead he has, growing desperate in his search for a sensible answer. “Why do you keep coming here? And why do that of all things?”

Though Erwin gives him plenty of time, the Jew doesn’t answer. Frustrated, he pulls his cigarette case out of his pocket.

“I’d at least expect you to take something,” he says, lighting a smoke and, remembering his tea, bread and jam, adding, “Other than food, that is.”

“I like to clean,” the man replies sourly.

“That’s a very poor explanation,” Erwin tells him at once. “Why don’t you scrub your own floors if you have a mind to?”

“Thought I’d give you a hand,” the Jew says, “since you’re shit at housekeeping.”

A thought occurs to Erwin then; a gamble, a way to direct the man toward something marginally less harmful. He takes a drag off his cigarette, trying to catch his thoughts again before they run out of control, categorising them quickly. He doesn’t intend to kill the Jew; after saving his life a second time, he’s lost all willingness to do so. He doesn’t enjoy the thought of having the man sneak into his apartment uninvited and uncoordinated; it would be most inconvenient, and in worst cases could result in more scenarios like this. It would save the rest of them some time during missions, as well as outsource an unpleasant task to someone who seems to at least get something out of it. Of course he’d be putting the man’s life at risk – but then, Erwin’s not going to insist he accept the offer, which leaves the choice ultimately up to him. He seems to possess the right skillset: cool nerves, a talent for deception – and a wealth of hate waiting to be harnessed.

“Well, I wouldn’t like you to think the gesture isn’t appreciated,” Erwin tells him; and it’s true, he does enjoy having clean, scrubbed floors. “In fact, since you’re clearly not without skill, I would like to offer you a position.”

The man’s hesitation is obvious. “What kind of position?” he asks just as a knock sounds from the door.

“We’ll get to that in a moment,” Erwin says, getting up to let in Darlett and Mike; he greets the latter fondly, pleased to see him looking so well.

Darlett marches straight past him into the apartment, pointing angrily at Mandl’s body as soon as Erwin returns to the sitting room.

“What the hell is this?” he demands. “You killed _Mandl_? On whose authorisation?”

“Yes, it’s quite unfortunate,” Erwin tells him, smoking his cigarette, keenly aware of the Jew following his every word, though no doubt he understands very little of them. “A situation arose where taking any other course of action would have been inadvisable. I’m sorry to burden you both with this. Mike, do you think you’ll be able to dispose of him tonight?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Mike replies, dressing the wound on Mandl’s throat as he speaks. “I’ll use the river if all else fails. That ought to sort it out.”

“You’re American?”

Erwin turns around to face the Jew when he speaks, suddenly remembering to wish his assumptions about the man’s heritage have been correct. He stares at them in a state of confusion and fear. Erwin feels rather sorry for him. Surely he never wanted to get involved in something like this.

“And who the hell is this?” Darlett asks as Erwin takes the last drag off his cigarette.

“He’s here to do the clean-up,” he says, switching to a language the Jew understands, hoping it will calm the man, give him an anchor, adding, “Isn’t that right?” when the man doesn’t react.

“Yeah,” he finally responds, faltering a little but perhaps appearing just convincing enough to make this seem like something prearranged – or at the very least something Erwin didn’t think of less than five minutes ago. “I’m here for the clean-up. Actually, you should take off your shirt.”

Erwin turns back around when he hears the words, sensing Darlett’s disapproval on the skin of his neck.

“There’s blood on your sleeve,” the Jew clarifies, pointing out the few small stains on the otherwise pristine fabric. Erwin smiles to himself; an excellent choice, all things considered.

“Ah, yes,” he agrees, unbuttoning his shirt quickly and shrugging out of it. “Mustn’t let the shirt get ruined.”

He hands it over to the Jew, who retreats with it quickly into the bathroom. Erwin can hear him turning on the tap just as Darlett mutters a few choice swears under his breath.

“A fine mess you’ve made again, Erwin,” he says, sounding tired. “I suppose I shouldn’t waste any more time inquiring about the authorisation for this?”

“The proper channels exist for proper missions,” Erwin replies. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you there isn’t always time for that. I made a judgment call, the best I could given the circumstance.”

“Perhaps you’d find yourself less frequently in such circumstances if you didn’t–” Darlett begins, falling suddenly quiet, as if the following words were something he doesn’t dare speak out loud.

“Yes?” Erwin asks him, glancing at Mike who’s trying to hide his smile. “My father always told me never to start a sentence and not finish it. I urge you to try the same.”

“You know damn well what I mean,” Darlett hisses even more quietly than before. “D’you think this is a joke? Anyone else would’ve reported you to central years ago for your… shortcomings.”

“And for as long as those claims would remain unsupported by evidence, central would take no action to investigate them,” Erwin lets the other man know, making him blush an ugly shade of red. “I invited Mandl here for drinks so I could ask him about the state of affairs in Birkenau. I wanted to know who’s been photographing there. They’ll be key witnesses once all this is over – especially since the photographs themselves are unlikely to survive what’s to come.”

“You always have an answer to everything, don’t you?” Darlett asks him, shaking his head. “Well, one day you’ll run out of explanations, and all the excuses you’ve made along the way will come and get you – by the neck.”

“And should that day ever come, I’m sure you’ll be right behind me telling me you told me so,” Erwin says, knowing nothing was as likely to irritate Darlett than appearing unconcerned by his opinions. “Meanwhile I shall continue to allow my best judgment to dictate my actions, regardless of whether or not it would earn your seal of approval.”

Darlett sneers quietly and falls silent long enough for Erwin and Mike to exchange a knowing glance. So far the man has never been able to help himself in his need to have the last word. Erwin feels the urge to count to ten in his head, but resists.

“And you brought someone new into the operation,” Darlett finally huffs. “I suppose you think you’re above authorisation in that too? Above telling Mike and myself about it?”

“I was actually wondering about that too,” Mike says quietly, getting up from the floor and wiping his hands on his trousers. “Not like you to recruit people, Erwin – let alone civilians.”

“I know,” Erwin admits readily, glancing quickly toward the bathroom. “Again, the circumstances were… exceptional.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Darlett snaps. “They must all seem very different to you – though truth be told I myself am surprised they haven’t all started to rather blur together.”

Erwin takes the insult with a quiet laugh. “I in turn am surprised we haven’t won the war already,” he says, “with your superior skills of deduction at our disposal.”

“Quit it, you two,” Mike mutters just as Darlett’s about to open his mouth. “There’s enough to deal with here without all that.”

“My apologies, Mike,” Erwin says; the tap in the bathroom goes quiet. “And you too, Darlett. I know how much you dislike surprises.”

Darlett’s expression doesn’t melt; he doesn’t even seem to notice the Jew, who crosses the room and kneels on the floor, pushing the body aside to get to the stains underneath. Erwin glances down at him; he looks extraordinarily small.

“I can handle the unexpected the same as you,” Darlett tells Erwin sullenly, “but killing Mandl was never on the plan. In fact the direct message from central was–”

“I know what the message from central was,” Erwin interrupts him, rubbing at the space between his eyebrows with his thumb; the hours of the night are catching up to him. “I accept full responsibility for what happened. But you can’t deny that since the trial Mandl’s usefulness has significantly decreased. Central might not see it, but we both do.”

Darlett’s silence is a clear sign of agreement, though he’s unlikely to admit it. Erwin glances again at the Jew as he twists the reddened water out of the rag after rinsing it in the bucket.

“I doubt anyone still cares enough about Mandl to look too deeply into this,” Erwin tells Mike next. “As far as my judgment goes, there’s nothing in particular you need to be mindful of.”

“Got it,” Mike acknowledges, picking the corpse up and throwing it over his shoulder. “You’ll hear if there was trouble.”

Erwin nods and watches as Mike and Darlett walk away. For a second he wishes he could get one last look at Mandl’s face – a morbid thought that raises acid to his throat, and he discards it at once. He lets himself fall down heavily on the bed, eyes flying to his wrist watch, causing him to groan. He planned to be in bed by now, limbs heavy from exertion and release. He turns to stare at the floor the Jew is scrubbing, only then noticing the absence of dust in the corners.

“You cleaned these floors too, didn’t you?” he asks the man who sneers quietly.

“And your filthy bathtub,” he replies, reminding Erwin of the brush and bar of soap in the bathroom. “If you can’t keep this place liveable why don’t you get a housekeeper?”

Erwin laughs, both at the man’s impudence and his high standards for what passes for liveable. “I’m sure you can see how in my situation that might be inconvenient,” he points out to the man who nods curtly and drops the tainted rag in the bucket.

“Right,” he agrees sourly. “So how much will you pay me?”

The question takes Erwin by surprise. “Excuse me?” he manages from his shocked amusement; if possible, the Jew looks even less impressed.

“You said you had a job for me,” he states plainly. “I need something permanent, and regular. And I need to get paid. I’m not picky but it’ll have to be either money or food.”

Erwin feels another burst of laughter bubbling up, but he smothers it by clearing his throat to keep from insulting the man any further; clearly he has high standards for more than just the state of cleanliness of his rooms.

“I can’t promise that the work will be permanent or regular, I’m afraid,” Erwin tells him honestly, “but clearly salary is something we can discuss.”

After all, he has money – enough not to miss it.

If Erwin thought the man would be satisfied by this, obviously he was wrong. “I’ll go ahead and save us both some time and tell you how that discussion is going to go,” he states matter-of-factly; Erwin can’t help but smile. “I am not mopping up the blood of some dead Nazi pieces of shits for you for nothing. Have you any idea how disgusting this is?” Erwin glances at his blood-stained hands as he lifts them. “And I have mouths to feed at home, so whenever you can’t find a dead Nazi for me to clean up after you’ll pay me to scrub your shitty floors.”

“Or what?” Erwin asks, curious to see how far the man is willing to go, how desperate he is. No doubt providing for his family is an acute concern, something worth assessing should they both take this seriously.

The man meets his gaze, unflinching, and says, “I’ll rat you out to the ‘Stapo.”

“They wouldn’t believe you,” Erwin reminds him, though he’s sure the man already knows this. It’s an empty threat, but it reveals something about the man nevertheless.

“You want to take that chance?”

He wants to feel like he’s got something to use against him, Erwin realises. It must be jarring, watching everything falling apart and having no power to stop it. Erwin feels it enough himself, even with all the work he’s done.

“You wouldn’t do it,” he still points out, though it’s unnecessary. “They’d catch you too if you did.”

“You think I wouldn’t take your Nazi arse down with me?” the Jew says, snorting dismissively.

It leaves Erwin wondering whether the man still believes he’s Austrian. It’s probably better if that’s the case – limiting information is always the priority. He surveys the man’s sour expression, letting out the laugh he’s been holding.

“I must admit, that’s not the attitude we usually look for,” he lets the man know, extending his hand politely, “but I appreciate the fervour.”

And he does. It’s always better to find someone who’s already willing to risk his life. Saves Erwin the trouble of having to convince him – as well as the guilt should something go wrong. The man stares at his hand suspiciously for a moment before taking it; his grip is tight, his skin cool and his hand strangely small.

“Sure,” he simply states, letting go of Erwin; the touch leaves behind a red smear. “You should go wash your hands.”

“You don’t need to keep me clean, you know,” Erwin tells him, but he merely snorts.

“Guess again, Herr Brewery,” he tells him, turning back to the floor. “Don’t take a bath yet, though, I’m not done cleaning the tub.”

Erwin sighs as he leaves the room, washing his hands quickly before returning to the armchair and lighting another cigarette, keeping an eye on the Jew as he finishes his work, going meticulously over every floorboard until they’re all spotless. Erwin wonders how far the man’s way of cleaning can be used as a basis for assumptions regarding his character. It suggests he’s careful, perhaps even pedantic in some aspect. He has quite the mouth on him, and he doesn’t seem to like being told what to do – but he still follows orders to the letter where he wants to. Already Erwin can think of ways to use him, far beyond simple clean-up duty. It’s a specific set of characteristics and skills that the man has, a combination that Erwin believes can be bent and directed in a number of ways.

“We ought to have a proper discussion regarding your involvement,” Erwin tells him when he’s about to leave; the first words they’ve said to each other in a good fifteen minutes. “Would it be possible for you to return here on Tuesday? Preferably after four, but no later than seven.”

“Sure,” the man replies again, sounding marginally less sour, as if all the cleaning has lifted his spirits. “This place could use more sprucing up anyway.”

Erwin lets out a quiet hum of a laugh. “Have a safe journey home,” he wishes – getting no reply – and frowns after he’s closed the door behind the man. Such a strange thing to say.

Something Holtz would never say.


	3. Chapter 3

Her head rests on his lap, loose hair fanning out over his thigh, delicate brows furrowed in concentration as she follows the radio broadcast. Erwin can feel his own interest wavering between the wireless, her face, the dozen odd things he has on his mind at any given moment that he needs to remember – or needs to forget. He flashes her half a smile when she reaches up to touch his face absently, like she wants to make a habit of it for some reason Erwin would rather not understand. He thinks about Schaumann, about the threat he now poses. His mind has already formed the same conclusion it did that night with Mandl. It's just the route that he needs to–

“What if the landings hadn't failed?” Lilian asks him, shaking her head. “Can you imagine.”

He grunts a reply that's neither here nor there, trying to catch the thought she interrupted, growing annoyed when it escapes his reach. Well, Normandy at least was a success; something to be grateful for. The papers have been busy pushing out one lie after another about it, but it seems to Erwin no one in the Personalhauptamt has been fooled for a second by the false coverage. He's seen the panic beginning to build up behind many pairs of eyes over the past couple of weeks. No doubt it'll make things more difficult going forward, the desperation driving people to act in unexpected ways. But, Erwin supposes, it won't be too long now – with the Rubicon thus crossed to the beginning of the end – if always too long nevertheless.

He shouldn't be thinking of any of that now, not with her in the room. Not with who he's supposed to be. Suddenly her presence is no longer the distraction he convinced himself it was before. Things would be easier if she simply left. He could spend the rest of the night alone, being neither of the Erwins, losing himself in work.

“You should go and make us some coffee,” he tells her, yawning when the news make room for music on the wireless. “And something to eat.”

Lilian scoffs. “If you think I came here to slave away in your kitchen, you are sadly mistaken,” she says. “You don't really think I brew my own coffee at home, do you?”

“I thought you liked it,” Erwin says, “pretending to be poor with me.”

“There's a limit to how far I'm willing to take that game,” she lets him know, smiling a little wickedly at how displeased he looks; she likes this sort of thing, Erwin knows, this strange pushing and pulling of power between them. “I'm afraid your kitchen threshold is that limit. It's bad enough I need to make Wolfgang his supper whenever he comes home.”

“I can still dream of it, can't I?” he asks her. “That you'd serve me as well in the kitchen as you do in the bedroom.”

She glances up at him and clicks her tongue, swatting his hand away. “You're terrible,” she says. “I don't know why I keep coming here.”

Erwin scoffs, closing his hand gently around her wrist, kissing his way down her arm to make her smile. “Then again,” he whispers, “your husband can have the meals you cook. I want your cunt all to myself.”

She tries to draw back her hand to slap him, but his clutch on her wrist tightens at once. He grins when he pulls her up onto her knees, sitting her down onto his lap. She's trying not to smile when he pulls her into a kiss. It's easier now, just give her what she wants and she'll leave. Once they're in the heat of it, he can lose himself for a moment, he won't have to think.

“You really are awful,” she whispers, moaning when he kisses her neck. “But then... Redeeming qualities...”

Erwin's just slid his hand under Lilian's dress when a knock sounds on the door, sharp and fast. His mind jumps to the revolver hidden in the bedroom, but backpedals when he grabs Lilian's waist and moves her over on the sofa; she starts fixing her hair at once.

“Who do you think it is?” she asks him, sounding a little panicked when he shrugs; Erwin would like to tell her that Wolfgang showing up here would be the least of his worries.

“Wait here,” he tells her, walking through the apartment to the door and opening it, his anger flaring at once when he sees the Jew on the other side.

“What are you doing here?” Erwin asks him, meeting his defiant stare; it makes something bubble up at once, things from his past, things he has no use for now.

“We agreed on regular work,” the Jew says after a moment's hesitation. “It's been almost a month. How the fuck is that regular?”

The words move Erwin back to that night, he's standing over Mandl's corpse, his voice even steadier than the hand that's holding his cigarette, keeping the conversation casual despite the morbid subject. Like having afternoon tea with his mother, polite conversation, the light falling through the lattice-pattern windows of the drawing room. But it's the wrong Erwin, and this is the wrong moment.

“I told you I can't guarantee any of that,” he snaps at the man, thinking it the best way to get him to leave. “I also told you it would be a while before I'd need you again. Now I'm just wondering which part of those two sentences you misunderstood.”

The man stands there in the hallway, looking like he's too angry to speak. Good, Erwin thinks. So he just needs another small push.

“You're the one who told me you're not an idiot,” he continues, remembering how this seemed to be the thing the man found most insulting. “It didn't take me long to realise you're uneducated, but I thought such simple instructions wouldn't confuse even someone like you.”

The Jew keeps looking at Erwin and grinding his teeth together; fury personified. He seems ready to spit out every curse he's ever known, but not a word comes out, and Erwin guesses he's even angrier for it.

“You will be contacted when you are needed,” Erwin states plainly, starting to close the door to send the fellow on his way. “I must ask you not to come here without my orders again.”

“Who was that, darling?” Lilian calls out, the concern still piercing through the thin veil of nonchalance in her voice.

“No one,” Erwin says back, slipping the full roughness of Holtz back into his speech; an easier transition than he thought it would be. “Just someone asking for directions.”

“Oh,” she huffs and stops fixing her hair when he walks back into the sitting room. “Quite annoying – though I suppose it's better than the alternative.”

Erwin grunts, leaning onto the back of the sofa, letting her flit around it and over to him. She stops behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, her hand brushing against the front of his trousers when she gets on tiptoes to whisper into his ear.

“Tonight,” she says, “my cunt is all yours.”

All he has is a split second to feel wrong, like this is the last thing he wants to do, before turning around and forcing a grin onto his lips. He grabs her and starts pushing her towards the bedroom; she squeals and laughs when he scoops her up, falling quiet only when he throws her onto the bed. He climbs on top of her and kisses her, nearly tearing her dress when he pulls it off her. She's more eager than usually, already wet between her legs, like the thought of getting caught has urged her on.

Tonight for the first time, Erwin can barely stand the way Holtz fucks, how he mounts the person he's with and thrusts into them near blindly, like an animal in heat. It used to be a refuge, an empty moment here and there – or as empty as any moment could be for someone like him. It was never so good that Erwin would lose himself in it completely, to start using words he shouldn't, making sounds he shouldn't, but whatever pleasure he found in it before seems all but gone now. He wishes it could be different, wants to reach down and kiss Lilian softly, to run his fingers down between her legs and see the full height of her pleasure. But she likes Holtz for a reason, for his rough speech, for the way he fucks her like it's half a punishment. And Erwin obliges; there's little else he can do.

She washes up afterwards – a relief there'll be no surprises at least, like Darlett's insufferable situation – and gets dressed, using the mirror above Erwin's washstand to do her hair again. Erwin watches her and smokes a cigarette, grunting a goodbye when she leans down to kiss him before she leaves. Afterwards the apartment feels empty; blissful and intolerable.

He dresses, avoiding the uniform trousers though he doesn't mean to, then sits down at the secretaire. He pulls out the typewriter and starts working, writing out the beginning of his report on Schaumann, but stops after a few sentences. He can't bear this feeling. He doesn't know what it is, and he can't bear it.

Erwin puts away the typewriter and stares at the wall in front of him, trying to think, remembering too much and too vividly. He pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen, wants to write it all down but there's too much of it: grass under his bare feet in the garden, the smell of pipe tobacco in his father's study, the secrets exchanged after sundown behind the barracks. To control the flood, Erwin picks up the pen. The tip hovers above the page as the images keep coming, of the old mill by the river, of the leather-bound Shakespeare, of the early morning marches.

_Erwin Smith_ , he finally writes, then _Smith, Erwin_. Then only _Erwin_ , just _Erwin_ all the way to the bottom of the page.


	4. Chapter 4

Erwin enters the church, his steps raining back down on him from the vaulted ceiling and skipping across the empty rows of benches. He looks up at the crucifix, at the mournful figure of Jesus and suddenly he realises if history is to be believed, the man was no older than him when they nailed him up on the cross. An evil deed that has bred more evil than any of the executors most likely could imagine or foresee.

He takes a seat and crosses his hands in his lap. More a habit than anything else by this point – Holtz is not the type to attend, and Erwin has to admit he’s never been devout himself. He looks up at the wood-carved son of a carpenter and frowns, nearly wishing he would feel that urge to pray, to beg for absolution. He wonders what would be sufficient: a simple Our Father? an entire rosary’s length of Hail Marys? Perhaps he ought to lie face down on the floor and spread out his arms, mirror the pose of the starved and beaten man above. Or perhaps he should take his imitation further, to flagellate and fast and punish his flesh and mind for his wrongdoings. There’s something tempting about that thought, something of the pleasant pain of taking exercise and driving yourself to the limit of what you can bear – and something beyond that, something that resonates in the darkness of the mind, in the perpetual self-hatred from which all men attempt to distract themselves.

The Jew walks in some time later and takes a seat behind Erwin, passing him the documents without saying a word. He reads them quickly, trying to keep his eyes from straying to the hat of the poorly-fitting uniform the man is still wearing on his head; the sight makes Erwin’s stomach tighten even more than it did in the lavatory. All the while he reads, the Jew sits in front of him, immobile and silent. Erwin wonders if he’s keeping so still not to distract him. Good man, the perfect choice for the operation – even if Erwin’s regret for including him keeps him from feeling the joy that knowledge would usually bring him.

When he addresses the issue of the hat, the poor wretch tells him there’s been a problem that makes his quest back into the lion’s den to return the files more dangerous than they previously thought it. In that instant the whole mission reveals itself to be just what Erwin feared: the most selfish affair, a reckless and poorly thought out sham of a plan that has put the life of another at risk. But a glimpse at absolution comes in the next moment when the Jew tells him he’s revealed his name in a moment of panic; Erwin knows this isn’t the time for a deeper consideration of the issue, and he lets it slip out of his mind.

“There’s nothing more you can do about it,” he tells the Jew quietly. “The rest is up to me. Meet me back in the restroom as soon as you can.”

The man nods and takes his leave soon after, leaving Erwin alone in the empty church again. He glances at his watch and allows himself a few minutes to consider the problem with Osterhaus he now finds ahead. That damned dinner party. If only he’d retained a cordial relationship with the man, having the problem dealt with would’ve no doubt proved quite as easy as in the case of Schaumann.

Erwin glances at his watch again and gets to his feet, making his way to the lavatory at a leisurely pace; a gentleman out for an evening stroll. In the summer heat, he’s already dreaming of the swim he has planned for later, and when he smells the stale urine in the lavatory again, he tries to picture the smell of chlorine instead. His thoughts go back to the man who must now be deep in the barracks complex, using his considerable wit to make his way out again. It would really be a shame for such a mind to go to waste. Just one of the things that so infuriates Erwin about the Nazis; how they have no appreciation for diversity and uniqueness of character.

The door goes, and Erwin feels the familiar course of adrenaline follow the warning glance the Jew gives his way. He retreats back into the stall, hand already closing around the small revolver he’s brought with him. He listens as the door opens again, and closes, expecting shouting, the quiet shuffling of a struggle, but hearing nothing but the splashing of urine against porcelain.

Then, a quiet voice. “Not many men like you out tonight.”

For a moment it feels like something from a previous life back in England, and a corner of Erwin’s mouth twitches upwards as if in some coordinated response. The man must really be desperate, or the Jew must’ve given him enough to be so bold about; but to Erwin, propositioning a soldier in a public lavatory seems reckless in the extreme, no matter what the circumstance. His mind has already decided the course of action, and he takes a moment to track the formation of the plan to its source before stepping out and joining the other two men at the urinal.

It’s a gamble of course, assuming the Jew knows this game, but as soon as he senses the man’s shoulders stiffening on his left, Erwin knows his instincts haven’t failed him. When the Jew shifts his weight on his feet and steps ever so slightly closer to Erwin, he knows the man has caught the plot. A moment of tension follows the third man’s exit; a titillation, like an electric current passing between their gazes through the mirror when the Jew withdraws into the stall to change out of that ill-fitting uniform. Erwin looks down at himself and smiles. To think what opportunities a moment like that might have opened up a good decade ago.

That tension stays in his mind, lingers on his skin when he undresses at the natatorium. It follows him when he dives into the pool, survives the embrace of the cool water and all the preliminary plans he makes regarding Osterhaus. He brings it back to his home that night, into his bed where his muscles refuse to relax despite the hours of exertion inflicted upon them. But it doesn’t feel right, to think about the Jew. For whatever reason, it doesn’t feel right. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t know the man’s name. And how he’s come to dislike thinking of him as the Jew; the term – though there’s nothing wrong with it as it stands – has an undercurrent of Holtz running through it like a river of poison Erwin can’t force to dry up though he tries, and perhaps that is why he forces his thoughts elsewhere – though not to Lilian, either.

The man comes over the following day, and for a second the foulness of his mood makes Erwin fear against all reason that he knows somehow Erwin has considered it, using him and the moment they shared in the lavatory to such base ends. It seems the Jew is starting to find Holtz – though he’s never met him – as vile and repulsive as Erwin himself is, has grown sick of the sight of his clothes, and the swastika motif cufflinks he wears on his shirt. Erwin hides them from his view when he voices his distaste for them, but it seems whatever damage was done predates the man’s arrival, and in the end renders the gesture all but meaningless. The manner of his departure is curt and sullen. It leaves Erwin perplexed – and not least of all because in truth, it shouldn’t bother him at all, and yet it does.

He throws himself into work – that problem of Osterhaus is calling for his attention. The man won’t take long to make his move, nor will he be able to act hastily with all the loose ends he has in need of tying up. And of course the thought of leaving enters Erwin’s mind – enters, and disappears as soon as it does. Even in this he cannot be the better man. Even in this he is selfish and undisciplined, putting his own interests before the common good. He doesn’t waste time trying to justify his decision by thinking of the sacrifices he’s made. For truly, what sacrifice would be so great as to justify a treasonous, self-serving act such as this? To still be holding on to a line of poetry he would’ve wanted to read at his father’s funeral as a final act of belated reconciliation seems no sacrifice at all, and instead feels like no less than he deserves.

Only a knock on the door is a strong enough distraction to pull Erwin out of his thoughts. Perhaps he ought to be surprised to see the Jew at his threshold but for some inexplicable reason, he isn’t. Something seems to be amiss with the poor wretch; he shuts himself in the bathroom as soon as he’s past the door and when Erwin joins him after allowing time for decency, he’s sitting in a bath, staring ahead of himself, looking angry and distraught. The man’s refusal to accept the help he offers makes Erwin impatient and nervous.

“Is there anything you need?” he finally asks the Jew, relieved to see the nod he’s been vying for.

“I need to stay here tonight.”

And then, even that doesn’t stun Erwin, for whatever reason.

He stands up slowly and turns toward the door. “Anything I can do to help,” he offers and adds, “I’ll make us some tea while you finish your bath.”

When the Jew joins him in the sitting room, Erwin doesn’t ask him about why he’s there, nor whether this is all related to his earlier foul mood, or the man from the Berlin office that Darlett was so concerned about. Instead he indulges the silence the man seems to prefer all through the time it takes them to finish their cups of tea.

Still, he can’t resist offering his help one more time before departing – and what it is about this man that makes him want to offer, he cannot say.

“I don’t like to need help,” the man says without looking at Erwin. “Especially not from you.”

Erwin considers the words for a moment, tries to imagine a life of relying on others; the mere thought makes his skin crawl.

“I understand,” he speaks, more quietly than he thought, turning to leave the room when the man speaks again.

“I need to do more,” he says, something desperate in his voice now. “More of what we did. Not just clean-up.”

Erwin feels his own hesitation when he looks at the man, feels that selfishness rising to the surface and beginning its battle with it. The Jew is suited for the task – of that there is no doubt. And perhaps he is right in saying there’s nothing that can assure his safety, not even staying away from business such as this. In the end it’s the thought of being yet another person to hinder the man’s life, to keep him from living it as he sees fit, that proves unbearable and forces Erwin’s decision.

“Alright,” he tells the man. “We can discuss it further in the morning. Good night then, Herr Weller.”

“Levi.”

The name stops Erwin in his tracks and makes a shudder run down his spine.

“My name is Levi.”

Of course. How could it have been any other?

“Levi,” Erwin says, testing the feel of it in his mouth. “Finally a name that suits you.” 


End file.
